The Fly
by String-of-scarlet-words
Summary: Sherlock is busy working in 221B on the decomposing of the human finger when he hears a noise. I dont think John will ever leave Sherlock home alone ever again...


_**I came up with this idea whilst writing homeless**_._** It amused me so I thought I might develope it a little. Enjoy ;)  
**__**Edit September '12: I had to read through and change a couple of things; hopefully its improved slightly! Please feel free to review/comment! Enjoy x**_

It was mid day when the rain fell, pattering on the window pane, the wind howling, causing him to mumbled under his breath as he adjusted the focus on the microscope.

Sherlock had been sitting at the kitchen table for an hour now, studying a human finger under the brand spanking new microscope he had 'borrowed' from Molly at the Morgue.  
This model was much preferred, seeing as the last had been crudely broken by John two months ago; it hadn't been the same since. Molly wouldnt mind if this one was… 'permanently borrowed'.

A collection of fingers had been festering in the biscuit tin for two days now and they had started to gain a beautiful purple tinge. It was a perfect time to start studying the stage of decomposing and, seeing as Mrs Hudson had banned him from keeping any more heads in the fridge, it was the next best thing. The finger was a seriously misunderstood body part when it came to analysing corpses. Not that Anderson would understand that...

"_Bzzzzzzzzzzzz,"_

The little noise remained unnoticed.

"_Bzzzzzzzzzzzz,"_

Sherlock shook it off. The fingers were much more important at this stage…

"_bzzzzzzzzzz,"_

He looked up. A lonely fly was swimming lazily in the air around the light hanging above the table, a mocking tone the irritating voice of the fat little blob that Sherlock was now glaring at and, as if caught off guard, the fly wisped away quickly.

Sherlock smiled to himself, proud that he could scare even a fly, turning back to his microscope…

"_Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"_

Tiny little hairs at the nape of Sherlock's neck stood up in annoyance...but still, he carried on analysing the dead, soulless sausages on the scientific platter.

"_bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"_

His head snapped up and started to follow the fly round and round and around, ice blue eyes glaring at the little dot that was so unimaginably and utterly ridiculously, annoying.

"How is it that such a small, insignificant thing can be so annoying? Can't you go buzz somewhere else?"

"_bzzzzzzzzz,"_

Sherlock huffed and went back to his work. There wasn't any point in getting annoyed…

but no matter how he tried, he couldn't get past that buzz.

Soon it started to mix with the rain and wind and became a mocking harmony that twisted his ears into knots. Beads of sweat trickled down a pale forehead and into strained eyes making them sting and weep.

"_bzzzzzzzz,"_

He carried on.

"_bzzzzzzzzzzzz_,"

Sherlock's hands began to shake as he reached for a pair of scissors.

"_Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz_,"

**"SHUT UP!"**

He had intended to scream directly the blob but when he released his anger, throwing his head up again to the ceiling, the fly was no more; the noise had stopped.

"Thank you,"

Why he was thanking a fly, he did not know, but the sudden absence made all the difference and the urge to scratch off his own ears was now gone.

Sherlock looked back down at the finger...it was washing itself with the thin, wiry things it used for legs. Sherlock blew a quick blast of air from his lips yet it only hovered onto the table itself, eyeing up the rest of the fingers.

"That. Is. It"

Sherlock raised his fist slowly as not to startle the beast...

"Bzz, bzz, bzzzzzzz,"

**THUD!**  
He brought it hammering down upon the table but it flew away with a mocking tone to its tune.

Sherlock winced slightly. He got up from his seat. Followed it to the kitchen.

...

It darted around in circles as Sherlock rummaged through the draw.  
Where was it?  
Where was the killing machine?

It was five minutes before his hand settled on the desired weapon with which he would finally dispose of the enemy.

The fly swat.

Sherlock looked up watching the fly zigzag wondering if its big eyes could see death coming for him. Did flies fear death?

He watched the blob, heart racing, hand braised.

The fly got nearer.

Sherlock slashed at the air, jumping this way and that, shouting at the top of his voice.

"Get back here!"

"There is no way I will be defeated by a fly!"

"I'm a fencing champion you know!"

"Stop buzzing!"

"They're my fingers not yours!"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes for God sake!"

Paper work was sent flying, as the 6ft 2 gentleman jumped on the coffee table! John's morning cup of tea was sent to its carpet death, it's now cold contents spilling and leaking. It went back into the kitchen!  
Pots went flying.  
Plates were thrown at walls and water chucked.

"I'll drown you! I'll drown the noise out of you! get it!? Oh no wait you're a fly, **A BLOODY FLY**!"

...

Half an hour later the flat was more of a tip than it had ever been before. The arm chairs had been tipped on their side; most of the book shelves emptied (because the Fly had persisted to mockingly run across them all and Sherlock hoped the avalanche of falling books would crush the thing). Knifes were now imbedded in the walls; paper work lay on the floor like a blanket of snow. The fire mantelpiece would have to be fixed, apparently it couldn't take the weight of a full grown man no matter how skinny and light he was. Several lamps had been shattered as had most of the plates in the kitchen.

The only things intact were the fingers that Sherlock had decided to put back in the biscuit tin, for even the microscope lay crumpled on the floor after being bashed against the wall…

And Sherlock?  
He now stood with a knife and broken fly swat in one hand and a gun in the other, which was currently being aimed at the wall where a Fly had nestled.

Sweat trickled down Sherlock's brow as a nervous giggle escaped his lips.

"There can only be one winner,"

He pulled the trigger.

...

Sherlock waltzed on jelly legs towards the hole and looked admirably at the stain left by the fly, mixed with the black mark associated with a bullet hole.

It was gone, it was finally gone!

"Sherlock what the hell have you done?"

Sherlock wheeled round to face John.

...

_||Discalmer| I dont own anything to do with Sherlock or any of its characters etc, this is just a lot of fun||_


End file.
